


A Flimsy Lock on My Soul

by Areiton



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean-Centric, Deans feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s12e12 Stuck In The Middle (With You), Post-Episode: s12e12 Stuck In The Middle (With You)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 05:25:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9804419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: Hidden behind a flimsy locked door. This is where he falls apart.





	

He keeps his shit together.

That's his job. It's what he's done his whole life. Kept his shit together. Taken care of Sammy. Held Dad up when he was drunk and out of his mind with grief. Tied the family together when it was frayed by sheer force of will and being too stupid to know when to quit.

He keeps his shit together and he takes care of his family. Sam is quiet, and Mary--Mom--looks sick to her stomach. He pulls over halfway back to town, and she throws up, messy on the side of the road while Sam murmurs quiet reassurance and holds her hair back. She hiccups a sob and Sam nudges Cas into the front seat for the remainder of the ride.

And he doesn't turn to him.

Doesn't look at him. Can't.

Not yet.

They check into a hotel, and even though there's room at the place, Sam only books one room. He doesn't say thanks for that. Just pushes some clean clothes at Cas and points him to the shower. He's going through the motions, all of it rote and familiar. Get Cas cleaned up.

Stich up Sam.

Find food and beer—god, yes beer, they fucking need that. By the time everyone has been fed and cared for, his hands are shaking and he clenches them into fists to hide it. Mary looks at him.

He knows what she’s going to say, even before her mouth opens.

He doesn’t even let himself feel surprised or hurt. Maybe because he’s barely holding on at this point.

So they do that—the awkward goodbyes, the too long hugs and the _check ins_ and _stay safes_ and everything but the words—

Fuck.

No.

He swallows the last of his beer as Sam walks her to her car, hugs her again. Cas is at his side, a familiar electric presence, and it’s harder than it should be to not lean into the angel.

Cas’d let him. Take the weight and the slump of his shoulders, let him fall apart.

Cas’d let him fall apart, and would hold him together.

It’s never been a question of _if_ Cas would let him. It’s a question of if he’d let himself. And right now—

“Need a shower,” he grunts, and he squeezes the angel’s arm, familiar and comforting, as he retreats.

The bathroom is small, but that’s ok—all hotel bathrooms are a little too small, and it’s familiar in the way that home is. Shitty hotel bathrooms are his haven.

He grew up in hotels, in a car where privacy was a theory for other people but not for Winchesters.

Having a door that shut—and sometimes even locked—and the noise of running water. That became the place he hid when he was thirteen and figuring out what jacking off was, when he was fifteen and furious with the world, when he was sixteen and wanted to strangle Sammy as much as he wanted to protect him.

It’s never changed. He still retreats there, and now—

He locks the door behind him and turns on the shower, stripping with methodical care and steps into the water.

He’s halfway through washing his hair when he can’t anymore.

He sinks to the floor and shakes, silent sobs wracking his body as he curls in on himself and rocks.

_I think I’m dying_

The fear in Cas when he said it.

_I love you._

He can’t. Cas’d said it to them all, and he _knew_ it wasn’t for him, but the fear in Cas’s eyes, when he thought he’d die, and the tiny flicker of warmth in them, when the angel stared at him, and whispered that.

He kneels in the tub and water pounds down on him, so hot it’s painful and he sobs, hiding in his hands that still carry traces of his best friend’s blood.

He comes apart completely, all of it, the fear, the fight, the outright refusal to believe he could lose Cas, crashing down on him, pouring out in tears that wash away Cas’s blood, hidden by the steam and the shower, and a flimsy locked door.

Since Cas killed Billy, he’s felt like a specter has been hanging over them, a hair’s breath from snatching Cas away. They dodged a bullet when they put down Ishim, and things had been quiet enough, since then, even when he was forgetting every damn thing about himself and his life, that was something that kept hitting him.

Cas was in danger.

But this wasn’t supposed to be something that would put him at risk. It was a demon hunt, easy in, easy out, and he was more focused on the waitress hitting on Cas—something he refused to be jealous of—than killing demon extra number four.

And then it went to hell, and Cas was _dying_ and telling him he _loved him_ and he couldn’t process that.

He stayed there, until the water ran cold, and his knees ached, until Sam knocked, and then later Cas called to him, softly concerned, and tried that damn flimsy lock, and _god_ he was tired.

He was so fucking tired.

He wiped his face, and finished washing his hair and turned off the water. Dried off and dressed with methodical care, and stepped out of the bathroom, and all of his shit was together.

That’s what he did. He took care of Sam and he held up his drunk father, and he taught his angel how to human.

And when he could, he hid behind a closed door in a too-small bathroom, with a flimsy lock and a plastic curtain to separate him from the world, and he fell apart.

Cas stared at him from the bed, propped against the headboard in _his_ clothes, and he tried not to focus on that as he glanced at Sam, half asleep where he was reading in his bed.

“Are you ok?” Cas asks, soft and searching and he nods, turns to busy himself with putting his dirty clothes away, packing up to leave tomorrow.

It works, until he slides into bed, and Cas is there, still, too close and not close enough and his blue eyes are curious and patient and knowing.

They’re not going to talk about this. About what Cas said in the barn when they were pretty fucking sure everyone would die. They’re not going to talk about why that broke him open and left him sobbing in the shower for the past hour.

They’re not gonna talk at all, because he’s got his shit together and he smiles a little, gruff and familiar as he mumbles, “Night, Cas.”

But he leans against him. And Cas accepts it, smiles softly, and murmurs, “Goodnight, Dean.”

He keeps his shit together. It’s his job, has been his whole life.

And Cas holds him up.


End file.
